


get out as early as you can

by Cafelesbian



Series: tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt [13]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cafelesbian/pseuds/Cafelesbian
Summary: Bucky comes back to his mother more vividly than he has in four years.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1428403
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	get out as early as you can

**Author's Note:**

> dont ask a therapist why i am focusing on troubled relationships with parents but here is this character study of a terrible person! also title is from the poem This Be The Verse

Bucky comes back to his mother more vividly than he has in four years.

It starts with the articles. She is on her way home one morning with a new bag of Folgers and a carton of eggs, digging cash out of her wallet, when her eyes fall over the stack of tabloids and she goes still and cold. The shock is almost as if he were standing in front of her.

Bucky looks awful. Her breath snags in her throat as she realizes this, and yes, these magazines are always filtering and photoshopping and whatnot, but he looks awful. His jacket hangs off of him and his hair is too long, and he is not looking at the camera, but down, shadows across his eyes and cheeks, a terrible hollowness. She might not have known it was him if it weren’t for the arm. Her breath abandons her once again when she realizes he is standing next to Steve.

She studies him. He looks closer to the way he had last time she had, although older. He was always handsome, but he’s grown up to be striking. She has seen him a few times on magazine covers and billboards, but always turned away before she could register any way he has changed. He is staring right at the camera, jaw set.

The headline reads _Artist Steve Rogers’ boyfriend face of rape case against CEO Alexander Pierce: What we know about accuser James Barnes._

The next thing she is aware of is a man’s loud voice, “Ma’am? Are you alright?” Winnie blinks hard against fluorescent light. Her knees buckled, she realizes, and she is gripping the counter for support. The young cashier is staring at her too intensely. She swallows hard.

“Yes, fine,” Winnie says, voice clipped. Then she takes the magazine and shoves it across the counter, pays, and leaves the store.

***

He was a prostitute.

This is not a surprise. Winnie knows some people had been speculating that online, and the defense had dropped hints here and there, and she doesn’t know how else Bucky would have made enough money to survive, but the thought does not make her any less miserable. Alexander Pierce gives an interview where he discusses it. He is good. If Bucky weren’t her child, she probably would believe he was lying. George seems to believe that anyway.

“This has been in the news for weeks,” Winnie tells George that evening. She has felt faint and queasy since the afternoon. She does not understand how she hadn’t known since the news broke, but before the man, Alexander Pierce, had given an interview a few days ago where he announced that Bucky had been a _prostitute_ and the tabloids, since then, have exploded. Winnie does not know that this was mostly at his direction, that he is close with Rupert Murdoch and David Pecker, both of who have strategically held off on publishing too much about Bucky but who have now been given the greenlight to defame him as much as possible. She meant to put frozen chicken pot pies in the oven, but they are thawing on her counter, perspiration sweating onto the imitation marble.

George does not say anything. He has not spoken a word all evening, ever since storming out on her and Joseph. 

“George,” she says, her voice hard. He turns. She is gearing up for an argument, but he looks exhausted.

“What the hell does it matter, Winnie,” he says weakly. “C’mon. If it wasn’t Bucky you’d know how deplorable it is. Don’t pretend it’s okay just ‘cause he used to be our kid.”

He leaves the room again, and she hears the front door close. Suddenly too tired to stand, Winnie dumps the uncooked pies into the trash and goes to bed.

***

George goes to work that Monday like usual. Why wouldn’t he. 

He’s the general manager now, which means he does the same shit he has done for the last twenty-five years, only now they pay him slightly more to keep track of everyone else’s work. It also means he has his own office that is not really an office, just a space closed off with flimsy, insertable walls and one window that has stains on it no matter how many times he tries to wipe it down himself.

George is stared at as he walks in. Pull yourself together, he thinks, but it is not paranoia: heads turn, exhausted, bored eyes going sharper to study him. He pulls out his phone and pretends to check messages. Jim and Kelly, two thirty-somethings who flirt with one another all day from the cubicles closest to George’s fake office, are talking in Jim’s cubicle. They both go quiet as he walks by.

He shuts his door and is surprised by the wave of relief. He is about to shed his coat and sit down when he pauses, bag half off of his shoulder, at the voices outside.

“Jesus,” says Jim.

Another guy’s voice: Randy, who has worked there since Bucky was a kid. “You guys see?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Kelly.

“Just trying to pick up some parenting tips,” Jim adds.

Hushed laughter. George closes his eyes.

“Seriously, though,” Kelly says. “To have your child go into prostitution and then get raped by a billionaire. I can’t imagine.”

Randy, his voice ugly and enthusiastic, the bearer of gossip: “I met him, a million years ago. James. Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. George brought him to a couple parties and stuff. Sweet kid. Shy. Never would’ve pictured this for him. I heard George and his mom kicked him out when they found out he was gay.”

A low whistle from Jim. “For real?”

“Yeah, I ran into our old boss a couple years back and he told me that Winifred—George’s wife—told his wife. They’re like, complete Christian freaks. They caught him with a boyfriend and threw him out. No wonder he became a hooker.”

“Jesus.” Kelly’s voice, disgusted. “How do they sleep at night, knowing that about their kid? I mean, have you read the descriptions of what that guy did to him?”

George pries his door open. His vision is tinged white at the edges. “Don’t you all have work to do?”

The identical humiliation on all of their faces satisfies him for half a second. “Kelly,” he snaps, “your sales have been an embarrassment. Pick it up.”

She nods, looking pale. George returns to his office and slams the door. He waits ten minutes until he hears Jim mutter, so soft he isn’t even sure it’s correct, “Hey, Kell, relax. It’s not about you. His own kid got raped ‘cause he refused to take care of him. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

***

Winnie only reads the headlines. Sometimes, she tries to read the articles about it, but then she sees things like _‘the plaintiff alleged being drugged, beaten with a belt, and raped’_ or _‘according to the prosecution, Pierce threatened the victim with murder if he ever told anyone, going as far as to put a gun to his head’_ and she doubles over, clutching herself, unable to breathe. The ignorance is no better. She lies in an empty bed and pictures the things that were done to her baby. In her head, it is always worse than it really was, surely. A dirty mattress in a dark basement, zip ties or scratchy rope on a pole, but it could not have been that, because Alexander Pierce is one of the richest men in the country, and the crime scene photos show an exquisite living room.

Did anyone else do that to Bucky, she wonders. Men soliciting other men in dark alleys, Bucky pinned to the wall, a hand over his mouth. Filthy motel rooms, the walls thin enough that other people could hear him crying while they dirtied him.

She thinks of Bucky, six years old, broken in a hospital bed. She’d held his hand, had stayed there for days, not sleeping or showering, praying for her son. His tiny hand in hers, his blue, blue eyes on her face, so big and scared, the way his skin had burned when she stroked his cheek. She remembers wishing it had been her instead. Her shame, that she had been crossing the street with him and had not shielded him. On the car ride home, she had sat in the backseat with him and held him. She was terrified by the absence of his arm, but she hadn’t let it show.

She goes to church more, but does not listen to the sermons. One day, the pastor finds her weeping on the stairs and tells her gently, “Winifred, I understand your pain, but it may comfort you to look back on what you know to be true. Proverbs 11:21: the evil man will not go unpunished.” She does not realize until later that evening that he is talking about Bucky.

She knows she should probably change her bank, now, and she winces each time she walks into one to deposit her check. But it’s so much work to do that.

Caroline, the other secretary at the hospital where Winnie works, has stopped complaining to her about her daughter’s boyfriend and offering to pick up a tea for her when she runs down to the store. Winnie thinks, at first, that she is disgusted by her, and that she can stomach. Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who mistreat you and persecute you, she reminds herself when Caroline falls silent as she settles at her desk. 

And then one day Caroline bursts out, “Oh, sweetie, I can’t imagine it. How’s he doing?”

“I’m sorry?” Winnie says, startled. She wonders if Caroline is referring to George, although she can’t remember the last time she talked about her husband.

“Bucky,” says Caroline. “Or James. I’ve been following it a bit; that is your Bucky, right? I know Barnes is a common last name but I remember him from when you used to bring him in sometimes. God, what an awful story. I just wondered how he’s been.”

“Oh,” Winnie says. “He… I… we haven’t been in the closest touch lately.”

Caroline’s face takes on the pinched, uncomfortable expression of someone trying extraordinarily hard to conceal judgement. Winnie touches her hair, self-conscious.

“Oh,” says Caroline. “Well, have you thought about reaching out to him? I mean, if it were my daughter—”

“Well it isn’t your daughter, Caroline,” Winnie snaps. 

Caroline reels back, surprised. “I was just trying to help,” she says, and sounds genuinely hurt. “I imagine knowing that your child went through something like that is unimaginable regardless of whether or not you’re in touch.”

“I’ve managed,” Winnie says coldly. Then she turns away and pretends the printer needs refilling.

Actually, she has thought quite a lot about reaching out, but she doesn’t know how or what she would say. Instead, she looks at pictures of him. There is no shortage of those.

About a year and a half earlier, one of Winnie’s cousins had called her. She lived in Indiana but had been on her yearly trip to Times Square to see a play with her husband, and though they rarely spoke except for birthdays and Christmas, she sounded breathless on the phone, like a young girl delivering gossip to a friend.

“I just saw Bucky,” she said, her voice shrill. Winnie had been unstacking groceries, and she’d knocked over a box of cereal, its loud, flat clattering to the floor startling her.

“What?”

“Yeah! He didn’t see me, lord, I don’t know if he’d even recognize me, I wasn’t even sure it was him, but the arm—”

“Where was he?” Winnie had felt as if everything in her had squeezed and was ringing her dry.

“In some breakfast shop—Tim and I wanted those New York bagels, and we went into a place that had them, and he was waiting for his order! And guess what! He was holding with a woman! She was hugging him, and he put his chin on her head, and they were talking to another guy. And she was real pretty, Winnie, she had this long red hair, I think your boy might be on the way back to the right side, thank God.”

Winnie had clung to this possibly inaccurate report for over a year, Bucky getting bagels with a pretty red haired girl. She even told George, who huffed dismissively and asked her if she minded if he watched some game instead of eating with her. Now that she can see him, she looks obsessively.

The worst ones are the photos of him on his own. Bottom of the barrel tabloids quoting men who had had sex with him, calling him awful things: eager, attention seeking, a whore. There are very few of these, but the ones there are have pictures of him taken on grainy cameras. A boy in a club, dark makeup around his eyes and tight clothing, grinding on a man who was older than her and George. She hadn’t meant to stare at that one, at the way his big hand held Bucky’s waist. There was bruising on his neck.

Another one, an awful photo of Bucky without a shirt, cropped up to his ribs, his back arched a little. His eyes are squeezed closed, and his face is turned away, so he must not have known it was being taken. His hair hangs around his face, stringy and damp. It is meant to show how comfortable he was having sex with men but he looks miserable. Winnie makes it to the bathroom before throwing up.

It’s not always unlike the shock of when she had driven to that camp to see her son for the first time in four months, only maybe that was worse, because she’d expected him to look better, polished and relieved. Instead, he had shifted his weight in front of them, staring down, his body rigid when she pulled him into a hug. He was skinnier, and his hair was too long, and when they got into the car he put his forehead against the glass and pretended to sleep all the way home. She remembers thinking, _it didn’t work_ , and being filled with lead-heavy dread. When they got home, he kept looking towards the Rogers’ house, and so she’d tried to ask him what he learned there, if he met any girls. Bucky had mumbled that he was tired and it was the last thing he’d ever said to her. 

Sometimes there are photos of him and Steve. These are the most bearable, although she purses her lips at the incessant touch—why, she wonders, can they not keep it private, or at least away from cameras . Sometimes Bucky even smiles, usually in the ones copied from Steve’s Instagram or Twitter or whatever he posts on. There is one of them at some kind of gallery where they are holding hands and Steve is whispering something to Bucky. He’s laughing. It’s the only clear picture of his face she has where he looks happy. There are others, too. A photo of them sitting in the grass in Central Park, Bucky between Steve’s legs like the cover of _Dear John._ They look neutral, like they are quietly discussing something important. Then, in the next one, they both see the camera and Bucky looks stricken. Her baby who never even liked giving presentations to his class, followed around by cameras all day long. 

She wishes that Sarah was alive. Out of the four of them, Sarah had started out the hardest and softened the most towards their boys. She had hardly cried when they first found out about Bucky and Steve, even when Winnie hadn’t been able to stop, although some of that was the awfulness of the last few days, the terror on Bucky’s face when she’d told him to get in the car with George. She used to be relieved that they couldn’t afford sleepaway camp, because if Bucky had cried, she would have folded and taken him home.

The two of them used to walk together, far enough that they’d find somewhere to sit that didn’t remind them of their children. Sarah took up smoking, and Winnie didn’t, but she found Sarah’s smoke oddly comforting.

“Where did we go wrong?” Sarah said one day. “I mean, we were good mothers. We gave them everything.”

“I don’t know,” Winnie said, because she really didn’t.

“You’re lucky Bucky’s seventeen,” Sarah said. “Before he left, I told Steve he could stay if he did a program, and he told me to go… fuck myself.” The word sounded so strange in Sarah’s mouth. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

Winnie smoothed the crease in her jeans and shook her head. “They keep telling George Bucky’s not doing any better.”

“He will be,” Sarah said, brisk and final.

***

One Saturday, Winnie goes to see Steve’s art. He has a few exhibits, she finds out from googling, but she picks the Met because it’s pleasant and because it’s only a suggested donation. She does not tell George, but she almost tells Joseph. Then she decides she doesn’t want to discuss this with him.

Winnie doesn’t know anything about art, except that Steve, clearly, is good at it. She doesn’t know what sets him apart from all the other talented people who can paint something and make it look like a photograph, but Steve, apparently, is very good with light and color. He only has four paintings on display here, so she wanders around the modern art exhibit for a few minutes before approaching his wall.

She does not know what she was hoping for. She’d held a slight fantasy that they’d be here, like artists spent their weekends strolling through their own exhibits, and she feels idiotic for coiming. Still, she studies Steve’s paintings like she is looking for a message right to her, something to explain him and Bucky. But they are just pictures, beautiful pictures, but pictures nonetheless. If there is anything bigger, she does not see it.

***

There was one day that Winnie and George and Sarah and Joseph received an email from Rebecca Romanoff, that girl Natasha’s mother, asking if they could all meet. The note was civil enough, and she even offered to host them, and they agreed even though their husbands were adamantly opposed.

She hadn’t known that Sam Wilson’s parents would be there too. When the Barnes’ and Rogers’ arrived, the other four adults sat opposite them like they were scolding children, their faces stricken and serious. Winnie reached for George’s hand and he took it, even though it was clammy and slack.

“Look,” Rebecca said. She kept glancing down. “I think it’s no secret that we all… have some sense of what happened between you and your kids. And I know that we probably disagree on lots of things, but we are all parents here, and we all care about Steve and Bucky, and I just wondered if maybe we could all talk about this and… I’m concerned for your boys, is all.”

“Well,” sneered Sarah. “Thank you for your concern, but we didn’t ask for any help from you.”

Rebecca and Darlene, Sam’s mom, exchanged a look that made Winnie feel hot under the collar. She cleared her throat.

“Look,” said Paul Wilson. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you’ve hurt your children very badly, but it’s not too late to fix things. And at the very least, we just want to be sure Bucky is okay. Our kids are really worried about him, and so is Steve.”

“You think I can’t take care of my son?” snapped George. “You wanna be my kid’s keeper, now?”

“It’s concerning to have our children’s friend just vanish,” Darlene explains. Her voice is calm and condescending. “We’re worried. We just want what’s best for all our kids, they’re all very close.”

“If this is hard for you,” added Ivan, Natasha’s father, “I can recommend some readings. When Natasha came out to us, her grandparents had a hard time with it too, but they came around.”

“Your daughter is a lesbian?” Sarah said tightly.

“Yes,” Rebecca said, straightening. Winnie remembers hating her, her smugness in her own disgusting choices and her arrogance with her nice house and her pretty daughters.

“No wonder Steve and Bucky did this,” Winnie sneered.

“Excuse me?” snarled Rebecca. “How dare you talk about my daughter like that? You people disgust me. You’re living in Brooklyn in 2011 and you kick out your sons for being gay? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It’s none of your fucking business how we raise our children,” snapped George.

“Well, it is,” Rebecca said, “because your children felt more comfortable talking to us about their lives than you.”

“You knew?” Sarah said, breathless.

“Christ, of course we knew,” Rebecca snapped. Her husband reached over and touched her shoulder lightly, a reminder to be cool-headed that angered Winnie even more.

Paul began, “Steve told us that—”

“He’s staying with you?” Joseph interrupted. Sarah, beside him, was pumping her foot. Winnie remembers the sensation that the air was seeping out of the room and soon she’d stop being able to breathe.

“My sons went to your house and helped him when you told him he had thirty minutes to move,” Paul replied coldly.

“How is he?” Sarah said. Her voice was tight and small.

Darlene scoffed a little. She was much calmer than Rebecca, but Winnie detested her too. “I don’t think it’s really your business how he is, given you told him, apparently, ‘I am not having a faggot for a son.’ But he’s heartbroken.”

Winnie watched Sarah purse her lips and recalibrate herself, trying to answer, when suddenly the door flung open and all eight adults fell quiet. Sarah, briefly, looked ill with dread, and Winnie realized she might be expecting Steve, but then a red haired girl in short shorts and a black tee shirt flounced in and Winnie realized she had not seen Natasha up close in a long long time.

“Nat,” Rebecca said, paling. “I thought you were busy today.”

Natasha, ignoring her, said, “What the fuck are they doing here?”

“Natasha,” Ivan said calmly, “honey, go upstairs. It’s alright.”

“No!” she scoffed. “No, you closed the door on me when I showed up” —Winnie barely remembers that— “but now that you’re in my home, where the hell is Bucky?”

“Nat,” said Rebecca, again. “Sweetheart, please. I promise we’ll talk later.”

“Jesus Christ,” Natasha said, again to the guests. “You people are fucking sick, you know that? You’re fucking deluded.”

“You aren’t going to stop your daughter from speaking to adults like that?” Joseph asked, while Sarah said coldly, “Honey, I hope you come to see that the sin you’ve chosen will only be your downfall.”

“How dare you speak to my daughter that way—” But Natasha was unphased. She barked out a laugh.

“Oh, you fucking cunt,” she sneered, and Sarah and Winnie both gasped. “You’re all so pathetic. Who does that to their fucking kid? What did you do to Bucky, fucking kill him?”

“Of course not.” George, so astonished by the language from an eighteen year old girl, was momentarily speechless.

“Bucky’s my best friend! Do you have any clue what it’s like to have him just up and fucking disappear? Jesus, you two, you’re Steve’s fucking parents! You don’t think he deserves to know where his boyfriend disappeared to?”

“Don’t use that word.”

“Oh, suck my dick, _Sarah_ —”

“Nat, enough—”

“Dad, shut up. You know, Steve and Bucky are in love. And it’s not even kid-love, they love each other better than all of you ever could. So from the bottom of my heart, fuck you. You pieces of shit. Fucking selfish, heartless assholes, kicking out your kids because you believe in something that doesn’t even exist.”

Joseph stood then. To Ivan and Rebecca, he said, “Clearly, we aren’t the ones who have problems raising kids.”

Winnie misses Sarah so much she can’t breathe, some days. Sometimes, horribly, she wishes it had been Joseph or even George instead. Sarah was the only person in the world who understood her pain, the misery of having to hurt your child but the understanding that some things could not be excused no matter what. To have her ripped like that was unspeakable. She had sobbed that night on her bathroom floor and cursed God, for the first time in her life, even though she had later apologized.

Bucky has Steve now, and a surge of public sympathy, and lots of money. Winnie has no one, a husband who doesn’t love her and a son who humiliates her and who made unthinkable choices and a dead best friend. It’s a miserable thing, to be jealous of her child.

***

She follows the case as it starts. She tells herself she will not, but she breaks, searching up Bucky’s name and refreshing the results. There are not articles released about it until the end of each day, but there are photos. Bucky tucked into Steve’s side, pushing through a mass of photographers, his face sallow and scared. Pierce and his pretty wife and his blonde children and his lawyer, three hired security guards flanking them. He looks like a man who can be listened to. No wonder no one believes Bucky.

She doesn’t care much about the first day. A detective speaks, and a witness who might have seen Bucky, but none of them give her much and it’s too depressing to think much about. 

There are no photos of Bucky on the stand, only outside, before and after. It hurts her to hear the things he says this man did to him, and it repulses her. His generation, smattering their shame out in public for everyone to see. She’d never have sold her body, but if she had, she’d have sooner died than allowed papers to call her a prostitute or tell the world about the dirty things old men did in hopes of putting them in jail.

But she is choked with tenderness for her baby. She doesn’t want to hear the things that happened to Bucky, but sometimes the details seep through, unavoidable, in headlines without warning, _Victim testimony alleges severe physical and sexual abuse from CEO. Alexander Pierce accuser breaks down in tears on stand describing alleged abuse. Barnes during testimony: I was terrified of him._ She clicks through google images, checking on him, the way that, when he was small and stunned by the new deformity of his body, she would open his door when he was asleep and try to gauge how he was doing by his expression and the tension in his shoulder. Not well, she concludes now, even more than she had then. The photos from the end of that day have him red-eyed and scared, his hand gripping Steve’s—Natasha Romanoff, she realizes with a start, on his other side while they leave the courthouse. There is another one from earlier that day, taken inside the building, where Bucky’s face is turned away and buried in Steve’s shoulder, and they are holding one another with a fervor that makes Winnie purse her lips. She will never understand the inability to keep that kind of affection to themselves.

***

“Winnie,” George says, a few days later, from the living room. “Come see this.”

She dries her hands and joins him. He and Joseph, who has been over for dinner, are staring, slack-jawed, at New York 1.

“—CEO and billionaire Alexander Pierce, whose criminal trial closed today with a dramatic condemnation of him from his adult daughter, has been brought into custody for aggravated kidnapping of none other than James Barnes, his accuser. Let’s take it to one of our reporters on the scene, Trish?”

“Thanks, John. Yes, I’m here at Pierce’s Manhattan home which is currently blocked off by police and EMTs after what appears to be a dramatic confrontation between Pierce, Barnes, and Barnes’s partner Steve Rogers. It’s still unclear what exactly has occurred, but we do know that there appear to be no fatalities, though Barnes and Rogers are being treated by ambulances still at the scene. While we haven’t gotten any confirmation, what appears to have happened is that Pierce forced Barnes to this location. It’s still unclear what exactly occurred or what Steve Rogers’ role in this was…”

“Oh, my god,” Winnie says. Even Joseph looks shaken.

Winnie stares at the grainy, red-tinted footage of Bucky and Steve by the back of an ambulance. They are clinging to each other the way they had in that photo of them at the courthouse, only now they look battered, their faces grim and smeary with blood, and Bucky has a shock blanket over his shoulders. In the video, Bucky is folded into Steve’s arms, his face buried in Steve’s shoulder. George and Joseph exchange a dark look.

When Bucky and Steve were very small, there had been a day, the same as many days, where she and Sarah had been watching them play outside. It was hopscotch or tag or something, but in any case, they had been running. It always gave Winnie an anxious tug in her chest to watch her child run away from her down the street, terror that only compounded on itself after the car accident, that even long after she stopped speaking to her son would seize her again when she saw children running along the pavement. But this had been a nice day, and she and Sarah had been talking about something trite, and she had not seen Bucky trip and fall, only heard the melodramatic childish wail when he skinned his knee. She’d gotten up and rushed to him, but once she had reached him Steve had already put an arm around his shoulders and was squeezing his hand, and Bucky’s tears had turned to nervous laughter at whatever Steve was saying, and he hadn’t even needed her comfort. That has always stayed with her, the way Bucky turned towards Steve right away, even at seven or eight years old, even when she was there, offering him love. He was always going to pick her last. Winnie stares for one hard moment more, swallows, and turns the tv off.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to not post a chapter today i am kinda self conscious about the next one so im writing it slowly but it's almost done so expect it this week, next sunday at the very least
> 
> cafelesbian on tumblr but yall know that by now, thanks for reading ily


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